


Sheaf Hill

by TheIntelligentHufflepuff



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Action, Body Horror, Canon Compliant, England (Country), M/M, Past Child Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 23:35:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12444396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIntelligentHufflepuff/pseuds/TheIntelligentHufflepuff
Summary: The locals say the site is haunted. They don't believe it, until they do.





	Sheaf Hill

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AraniaArt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AraniaArt/gifts).



> Okay, this is my fic for the Stucky Scary Bang (the mods of which clearly have preternatural organisational skills so shout out to them!) based on this prompt by AraniaArt: 
> 
> Canon-complaint or divergent: Steve & Bucky explore a purportedly haunted house, not really thinking that there is credit to the stories. But things turn serious when reality grows fuzzy around the edges and the past and present (and/or future?) commingle as the influence of the house gets into their heads...
> 
> I maybe changed the house detail to a creepy mill. Mostly because I kept imagining it without furniture or anything and it fit more with what kind of evil force I was going with, so I really hope that wasn't the key part of the prompt? I also put a bit more physical action in than they were probably intending with the prompt because my horror writing skills are kind of rusty. Basically I'm really sorry if this is horribly disappointing, AraniaArt. I hope even if it's not what was expected it's enjoyable. 
> 
> WARNING: mentioned baby murder. It isn't depicted and is a result of possession, but it is still very much there.

The hotel room they shared wasn't the most glamorous that Steve had stayed in, but the two beds and the nightstand between them were solidly built and the heavy curtains cut off any drafts, so it wasn't by any means the worst. In fact it was quite cosy, with a soft carpet, an en suit with a constant supply of hot water, and a moderate fireplace set into a feature wall. 

“Nice.” Steve commented.

“Fuck off.” Bucky, who hadn't been able to sleep on the plane like Steve had, replied.

Steve rolled his eyes and dumped his duffle bag on the bed nearest the door two seconds before Bucky moved to do the same. He gave Steve a sour look as he settled for the other.

“It is!” Steve insisted “There's a fireplace, and it's not even gas.”

Bucky threw his pillow at Steve's head. He dodged it easily and began to rifle through the nightstand drawers, partly from paranoia but mostly out of sheer nosiness. Energy renewed, Bucky flipped over on his bed to watch. The bottom two drawers contained nothing but a Gideon’s Bible, which Bucky screwed his nose up at, but the top one was home to a bundle of leaflets. Settling on the edge of his bed, Steve thumbed through the slightly tacky glossy paper, dismissing most as not interesting enough to spend their one free day on, or out of date. He could see Bucky losing interest until he sat up with a grin, brandishing an information sheet printed on cartridge paper.

“What's that?” Bucky asked, stifling a yawn.

Steve read it:

_ At one point, Sheaf Hill was a thriving hamlet. Children played in the streets between the cottages when not helping their mothers with washing or cooking, the warm light of the coaching inn lit the colder nights, and every man except the vicar was steadily employed in supplying or running the mill. Centuries later, most of the worker's moderate cottages have either been demolished or engulfed in the rising earth, and even the once vital mill has devolved into a husk. For a time, the aspect of the broken building was the favourite of certain Romantic painters- _

Steve interrupted himself “Ooh, that's cool.”

_ However, the yew trees in the boundary line grew unruly, blocking out the once endless view of rolling downs dotted with church spires and casting the mill into perpetual gloom. Even more repulsive was the stench that arose from the river once the last owner of the mill gave up his efforts to maintain it and allowed it to become silted up and clogged with branches to the extent that only a trickle remains, stagnant and rife with scum. _

“Someone had fun writing this.” Bucky laughed. Steve nodded, continuing through a smile.

_ The mill's only saving grace is that it wasn’t  hit by any of the  bombs discharged as surplus by the Luftwaffe returning from night raids on London, as the rectory in a nearby village was. Having survived so long, it seemed to locals a shame to pull it down. In fact, in the latter years of the twentieth century there was a movement to put it back up, but the big names in conservation were focussed on older and grander sites so the most the local heritage group achieved was a small article in the county paper entitled 'The Mill under Hill'. _

Bucky giggled, something that was almost definitely the sole result of sleep deprivation. Steve shook his head.

_ At the same time, property developers began to circle the site of the old hamlet, marvelling at the fact that it had managed to stand on what (until the recent construction of the A road) had been a major thoroughfare for so long without someone building on it; not even the seasonal hop pickers of old. The question the researchers asked was: why? The answer? Because, the locals say, the site is cursed. _

Bucky blinked blandly at Steve, who had delivered the last line with a definite relish. Steve pouted “Come on, lighten up! You used to love ghost stories.”

_ “You  _ did,” Bucky corrected “ _ I  _ humoured you.”

“They scared you.”

“No they didn't,” Bucky huffed “They made you freak out, which unnerved me.”

“Whatever.”

Steve cleared his throat.

_ The locals say the site is cursed. By who or what none could- or would- tell, but there is no denying that ever since the mill fell out of use the fortunes of those in its close vicinity have been worsening. At first farmers reported seeds planted only to disappear the next morning. Then chickens slit from gut to gullet in their pens. Next came reports of a mysterious figure luring men to drown in the leat, or manifesting in the shape of wives who later vanished- _

“Bullshit.”

Steve almost didn't take the bait, but in the end asked “What?”

“There’re logical explanations for all of that. Seeds?” He began, ticking off each item as he went “Wild boars. Chickens? Foxes. Mysterious figures drowning guys? Everyone was drunk. Vanishing wives? Maybe they just got fed up of their husbands and left, and it happened so long ago that everyone assumed they must have been crazy to do it.”

“It's plausible.” Steve conceded “But what about this: the leaflet ends-”

_ But by far the most horrifying of reported paranormal events occurred on the night of the 24th of August 1968, when a man called Reginald Bevensey woke up in the Sheaf Hill house he and his wife had been refurbishing and proceeded to murder his infant child at the impetus of what he, in an emotional testimony, described as “an irresistible demonic force”. Mr Bevensey since died in prison, but the mystery that lies some five miles from the George Hotel will surely live for years to come. _

Steve sat back in satisfaction, letting the silence stretch. Bucky stared at him inscrutability for so long that Steve began to fear he was having an episode, before twisting his brows into a scowl.

“I think that man’s a sick fuck and quite frankly I'm disappointed that you’d be delusional enough, or naive enough, to believe the lie he cooked up to make himself feel less guilty.”

Steve knew Bucky hadn't exactly re-learnt tact to a degree that the team’s PR guy would appreciate, but  _ damn. _ He stood up abruptly, glancing out of the sash window to avoid Bucky's eyes. The view was somewhat dreary, consisting nothing more than a lawn and a clump of scrubby trees, but the night was mostly clear and sufficiently removed from any hub of civilisation for a few stars to glimmer through the haze. Steve spotted Orion’s Belt. Suddenly, he was struck with the desire to be outside. No, not desire. Need. An almost physical need, chafing against him like being doused in itching powder.

“I'm going for a walk.” Steve announced.

Bucky chuffed, half asleep once again “Naw, didn't mean it like tha’.”

Steve patted his shoulder as he passed to the bathroom “I know.”

By the time he emerged again, Bucky was snoring soundly. Smiling, Steve drew the covers up around Bucky's neck. For a second his hand lingered, a light touch of his knuckles to Bucky's stubble-rough cheek. Then, feeling slightly guilty, he stole his hand away. Having not brought walking boots, getting ready was a simple process of donning trainers and the bright blue coat Sharon had bullied him into buying last time they went shopping; in fourty seconds he was out of the hotel door and heading down the nearest footpath, reinvigorated by the crispness of the night.

Though the land was flat compared to some of the places Steve had hiked, it wasn't monotonous. The hedgerows rose and fell, the ground morphed from grit to leaf to furrow, and he came across more than one expensive house stood in state in an impractical location. Time passed and night fell. The countryside was quiet save for the occasional low thrum of a car engine, or snatches of sound from houses and once a group of teens doing likely illegal things in the woods. Steve had a solid sense of direction, but he didn't really have an idea of where he was aiming to go. Which was why he was momentarily alarmed when he hopped over a stile into a field directly overlooking the Sheaf Hill mill. He laughed quietly. What did he think, that the supposed curse had called him there? Well, there he was, be it through luck or probability. He settled on the stile, assessing the view. Definitely diminished from its artistic allure as a semi-ruin, but in Steve's opinion equally as meritorious as a gothic backdrop. He wondered what it was like inside. As a matter of course, he dug around in his pockets to pull out his phone, sending a quick text to Bucky:

_ I'm gonna look around the old mill. Wanna come? _

Two minutes later his phone beeped with a reply:

_ No. _

Steve smiled, imagining Bucky's scowl; whereas Steve had always been a light sleeper, Bucky had picked the habit up and he resented it deeply.

_ Okay,  _ Steve texted back, slightly disappointed at a missed opportunity for Bucky's company,  _ see you later. _

With that, he hopped off the stile and made his way down the slope towards the mill.

********

This time, Bucky woke up naturally. He inhaled the fresh smell of the sheets, yawned, and exhaled calmly. Sitting up, his eyes swept over the room in a brief habitual scan. Nothing out of order, Steve's sheets still nearly tucked, the bathroom door set slightly ajar. But no Steve. Not particularly alarmed, Bucky went into the bathroom to freshen up. It was only when he came out and caught sight of the digital alarm clock on the nightstand that he was struck with a clinch of anxiety.

It read 22:47.

Steve had left just after 6:30pm. 

Bucky groaned. If his idiot of a best friend had managed to injure himself crawling around an old building on a trip that was meant to be for Peggy's memorial service Bucky swore to God he'd kill Steve himself. 

Grabbing the one knife he’d managed to get through customs and a pen torch, he double checked the lack of notifications on his phone and stormed off. The receptionist barely gave him a passing glance, engrossed in what looked to be knitting as they called “If you’re going out, sir, you’ll have to come in through the side. I'm finishing in five minutes.” 

Bucky nodded and hurried on. Outside he didn't vacillate much before picking a direction, orienting himself according to the map provided in the leaflet. The route wasn't particularly complex so Bucky completed it in half an hour at a marching pace, emerging at the top of a little rise. Below him the mill languished, barely nine walls together and only a fraction of the first storey remaining. As he advanced Bucky noticed that, strangely, it was connected to the ground floor with a set of newish looking stairs. 

Against his will, Bucky felt himself beginning to tiptoe as he approached the ruins. Though he categorically did not believe any of the ghost stories Steve spun, there was something unnerving about the sight of the mill’s timbers reaching, skeletal, into the night. Something to do with the abject brokenness of it, the desolation- something that he doubted would seem so impressive in daylight. A fox screamed somewhere in an adjoining field, startling Bucky back into action. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he crossed the threshold that could still be traced beneath the soil and- 

Entered his childhood home. Not the Brooklyn apartment filled with noisy children and the stench of the city, but the moderate Indiana homestead in which he had been born and raised until the age of six. He didn't even realise he could remember it until he was confronted with the bannister he struck his head on one Christmas while chasing the family dog, and smelt the thick musk of the homegrown tobacco his father ceaselessly smoked. He choked on a swell of sadness; he’d missed his mother’s death, but he was feeling every bit of it now. To his left, a fire flickered merrily- his favourite chore had been to totter around the yard picking up sticks for kindling, showing them off proudly when he was done and from time to time receiving a treat of some kind in exchange. Often that treat was to settle down close to the fire’s warmth and hear one of his father’s stories, narrated in a deep and comforting voice.

The compulsion to sink down into the same position now was almost irresistible. And why shouldn't he? He was home at long last, the fighting was done and he could return to a normal, cosy life in the rhythm of his friends and family. 

Except his mother was dead. And he had no friends because there were no children for miles around. No children meant no Steve. No Steve because... Because Steve was in- Steve was- 

Bucky didn't fall back to reality so much as slam into it. Gasping, he fell to his knees in the dirt and leaf pulp.  No more clean floorboards, no more Indiana. Cool metal fingers came up to massage his scalp, trying to iron the hallucination or flashback or psychotic break or whatever the hell that was away. 

“Jesus.” he coughed “I need more sleep.”

Just in case, he drew the knife out from his sleeve as he trod forwards. Around him the gloom seemed to have darkened, the shadows solidifying into an almost impenetrable wall. Quick shapes darted around in his periphery.

_ Bats.  _ He told himself.  _ Bats and birds and sensory processing. _

He reached the next few planks of wall. Despite his superior eyesight, it took him a while to discern the figure standing, as still as a statue, directly in the centre of the room. Even then he couldn't be sure of the features.

“Steve.” He called, so softly that anyone unenhanced would dismiss the word as nothing more than the scuttling of a mouse. There was no reply.

“Steve, you dumb shit.” He tried again, slightly louder. The figure didn't stir. Frustrated, Bucky flicked on the torch.

It was Steve alright, familiar features looking none the worse for wear. But at the same time there was an essence missing from his gaze and a complete lack of movement in his body that meant, if it weren't for the compulsive twitching of his lips, he could just as well be made of wax. Cautiously, Bucky inched closer; Steve was clearly in the grips of a flashback, and to awaken him rudely would end badly for both of them.

“Steve,” Bucky cooed, as if teasing him awake for work, “Steve, wake up. You're in Kent, or Sussex, or Surrey or wherever we are. You're safe.”

Then, after some thought, he added “I’m here.”

Steve gasped, folding in on himself. Bucky took him by the shoulders, murmuring reminders to breathe until Steve obeyed. At last he straightened up, brows furrowed in confusion as he surveyed their surroundings; the fractured walls, the twig covered floor, the almost all encompassing dark.

“I was…” he said, thoughts trailing off only to be picked up again “I  _ thought _ I was at home. With mam.” Bucky squeezed his shoulder; Steve eyed him “I thought you weren't coming.”

“I wasn't.” Bucky confirmed “But then you didn't come back for hours so I came to see-”  _ if you were okay,  _ he almost said “why.” 

“Hours?” Steve echoed. 

Bucky nodded, pushing back his sleeve to show Steve his digital watch “Yeah, it’s-” 

“Eleven thirty.” 

“ _ What? _ ” 

Hurriedly, Bucky brought his watch into the torchlight, checked his phone, dove into Steve’s pocket to do the same to his. Dismayed, he met Steve’s pinched gaze. They all showed exactly the same time. 

“Do you think-” Steve whispered, looking eighty percent incredulous himself. 

Bucky rebuked him firmly “No. It’s just psychology. Now let’s go back to the hotel, and you’d better not sleep all the way through tomorrow.”    
  


_ If he gets there.  _

The voice was high pitched but rough, a breath of a thing like the creaking of a gate in a breeze. Bucky started; Steve gave him a funny look, lips pinched in concern. Bucky shook his head and began marching for the door, leaving Steve no choice but to follow the puddle of light cast by his torch. As they passed a round lump half embedded in the earth, the LEDs stuttered and went out. They very much weren’t meant to do that. Banging the plastic casing against the palm of his hand produced a meagre glow, but even that waxed and waned with every passing second. 

“Got a torch?” Bucky asked, without turning. Steve didn’t reply. “Steve?”

He turned. Steve was gone and in his place was a spectre of a woman, dark skin chalky, face gaunt, hair matted with reeds.  _ She's homeless,  _ he reasoned desperately,  _ we’ve broken into her squat.  _ Except no-one dispossessed from a human home would glow subtly, even as they sucked in a vortex of dark. No person alive in their time would wear a gown of that fashion in so coarse a material, or such a moderate, wifely cap.

Bucky was moving before he realised, half running for the exit. The spectre followed, the darkness whipping around her gaining speed. A deep, grating wail rent the air, cut off into a bubbling keen. Bucky crashed into the doorway, timbers creaking ominously, and had almost thrown himself into the night when he realised-  _ Steve _ .

********

Steve scrambled up, kicking at the millstone he’d been pushed over. He couldn't have been winded for long, but by the time he got himself upright Bucky was out of sight. As was the half-formed  _ thing  _ Steve had seen perusing him. Panicked, Steve tried to call out- but all he could produce was a puff of air. 

_ Steve-o. _

He blinked, sure he was hallucinating. He hadn't heard anyone call him that since 1932. Slowly, reluctantly, he pivoted in place. Standing to his right, looking exactly the same as he had the night he died, was Arnie Roth: his friend, first love, and first regret.

“Arnie.” Steve gasped.

Arnie, or the impression of him, didn't hear. Mindlessly, the image lifted a hand- opaque but not entirely- to it's chest, grin splitting across its face. It was accurate- Arnie had always been the happy one, even where Steve met him, in the orphanage. Steve stared eagerly as the Arnie figure fixed his hair, eyes bright, sixteen and sure he could conquer the world. He wasn't prepared for what came next. Hadn't been prepared the night it happened. Would never be prepared to watch as bruises bloomed on Arnie’s cheeks from phantom fists, as his stomach split open under the force of an invisible blade. As his skull imploded blow by blow like a paper mache planet. All the blood rushed to Steve's head; he felt faint. Arnie stood unmoving, face compacted like a tragic mask, eyes fixed on a point far away. Then he vanished. The next thing Steve knew he was doubled over in pain, gasping for breath even though his lungs expanded to their full capacity. His arm fell flat a second before the bone split- Steve clutched it and it broke in two. The legs were next, and it was only the visceral memory of the sensation of falling that made him realise they were the wounds he’d got that night. His head hit the hard, cold earth. Just like then, when he’d watched the assailant’s feet retreat and the light drain from his friend’s eyes, all he could muster was one pitiful call.

********

The spectre was determined, Bucky would give it that. He’d been trying to outmanoeuvre it for a good three minutes with no luck, met at every turn with its ghastly face and some kind of hideous noise or expression. Initially, it had scared the shit out of him, but by now it barely inspired a bump in his pulse. Really it was starting to be funny, and he probably would have laughed in its gothic face if he wasn't so concerned about the fact that Steve hadn't appeared yet. Then he heard, faintly but distinctly, a voice that was definitely Steve's call out his name. He snarled at the spectre, and made another attempt to get passed. It resisted. 

“Fuck you.” He hissed. He couldn't hear any more from Steve, which either meant he was okay or that he was exactly the opposite.

“Fuck it  _ and  _ fuck you.” Bucky declared, before proceeding to march directly through the spectre. That was probably a very bad move, as far as the occult could be considered, but whatever. He had a Steve to find.

And find he did. Bucky's progress across the old production floor was fast, perhaps even suspiciously so; Steve was splayed out conspicuously behind the stone lump so there was really no way he could miss him, and Bucky didn't  _ trust it. _

Thankfully, Steve woke from his stupor the moment Bucky's hand met his wrist.

“Arnie.” Steve said, sounding shell shocked.

“Bucky.” Bucky corrected, concerned.

Steve shook his head “I saw Arnie. I know it wasn't Arnie but it  _ looked  _ like him and it...it  _ died  _ like him. Then  _ I  _ got beaten up like I did when…”

Bucky whistled “Damn, that's creepy. Let's go.”

Steve nodded and heaved himself up. Bucky latched onto his elbow, half dragging him with him to the exit.

“Take two.” He muttered.

Steve laughed, strained giggles morphing into a shout of alarm as Bucky hit the floor. Almost instantly Bucky was flying, propelled upwards by a jet of air. He caught a glimpse of the lands around before his stomach turned and he was plummeting again, instinct alone driving him to brace for impact. Except, instead of a jarring crash Bucky was caught soundly in Steve's arms. He looked very heroic like that, Bucky thought as he blinked up at Steve's concerned face, sort of like a chivalric knight. Though that would paint Bucky as a fainting maiden and he didn't think he was flattering himself to say he had a little more mettle than that.

“Bucky?” Steve asked.

“I'm good.” he said, rolling off Steve's lap. He could feel a few bruises developing but it was nothing compared to what he would have felt if Steve hadn't managed to slow down his descent.

“Sure?” Steve asked, hands hovering over Bucky's ribs.

Bucky nodded, but Steve's attention was elsewhere. Twisting, Bucky saw the spectre floating a meter away, looking royally pissed.

“Die!” It demanded.

“No.” Steve replied. Calmly, he stood up, crossed to the millstone,  _ ripped  _ it out of the ground, and hurled it with a hundred years of righteous anger directly at the spectre’s head. It flickered as the stone passed through it. For a brief moment, Bucky thought it was going to disappear- but he was wrong. It began to advance towards them, feet alternately hitting the ground and jerking through it like a video game glitch. With every step it took the ground seemed to heave, the walls to sway. Finally tens of pulleys, shafts, and gears erupted from the earth and ceiling. Bucky leapt back, a column of wood barricading him from Steve. He touched it; solid, so far as he could tell. The spectre was on him for an instant, bloated fingers clasping around his jaw. They seemed to pulse unpleasantly, and gave Bucky the strange sensation that his skin was burning. 

“Let me go.” he gasped, trying to pry the spectre’s hand off his face. Its skin was slick; Bucky couldn’t get a grip.

A cruel, rotten smile twisted its features. Gall rose in the back of Bucky’s mouth. 

“I will let you go.” Bucky waited, tense, for the other shoe to drop “If you leave your husband.” 

Bucky told it to go to hell reflexively. It was only when he realised exactly what it had assumed that he added “He isn’t my husband, so whatever Puritanism you’ve got going on here does not apply.”

It turned its head to the side and spat “Puritanism! I must be reformed! I, Elizabeth, the  _ Moor _ ! I, the  _ unworthy _ !” 

“Just let us go!” Bucky half-pleaded, mind rebelling from what seemed to be confirmation of the spectre’s unearthly providence.

It- or rather  _ she,  _ Bucky supposed- smiled again. Her eye was twitching. 

“I shall make you leave! The others left! A baby died! Elizabeth, the baby killer! And then the father! That was me!”

_ Shit.   _ Bucky kicked at her, wrenching himself around in her grip. She wouldn’t yield.  _ Where was Steve? _

Elizabeth smiled once more, as if she’d heard the thought. She probably had, because when Bucky blinked he was in London. The glow of the table lamps filled the air with a golden cast hemmed in by blackout curtains, the air was thick with the heady tang of cigarettes and the whiskey in Bucky’s glass was pungent with fumes. Across the room his best friend flirted gamely with a powerful woman, basking in the nectar of long-toiled for satisfaction and as bold and beautiful as he ever was. Bucky had never hated him, or himself, more.  _ Look at that,  _ Elizabeth’s voice whispered in his ear. He had the strange sensation of being half in a dream and half out.  _ Observe his look, his touch. How unnecessary you are to him, and what essence he is to you. Such strife, such troubles endured to his end, and for what? _

Like water from a burst pipe, Bucky felt the answer rushing up to meet her: love.  _ You love in vain!  _ Elizabeth rejoined  _ He knows not love to give and takes from you all! ‘Tis true!  _ He takes nothing, Bucky replied soundly, that isn’t freely given; he gives more than enough in return.  _ Self-deceiver!  _ Elizabeth screeched. 

The scene changed. No longer was he a young man haunted only by the relative present, but the walking corpse he had been just a year ago. Crouched in the bland hallway of Steve’s characterless apartment, he was sobbing. Two doors away Steve sat on his bed, biting anxiously at his lip but doing nothing to help. _He would not e’en extend the hand of friendship_ , Elizabeth said. Because he was petrified of making things worse, Bucky corrected. He may have resented Steve for a few hours afterwards, but he knew that time and time again Steve had gone above and beyond to help. _He didn’t care to take the risk._ Bucky scowled; because the risk wasn’t to himself. _He doesn’t love you!_ Yes, Bucky mentally yelled, he does!

Elizabeth released him with spite. When he came to, he found that she hadn’t even been restraining him physically, instead watching proceedings from a perch far above their heads. Bucky turned to Steve, who turned to him with a matching expression of mixed indignation and unease. Simultaneously, they said “Did you-?”

“Yes,” Steve said “If you mean did she try to convince me that you hate me, yes.”

Bucky exhaled sharply “I don’t.”

Steve raised an eyebrow “I know. For the record, neither do I.” 

Elizabeth screamed in frustration “That you were unconstant! That you were flittish! That my heart did not- But I must have my revenge! If not from a broken heart, you both shall die!” 

“From a broken heart?” Steve echoed. Bucky wondered if he noticed that he’d migrated closer to him.

“A broken soul!” Elizabeth screeched “A broken body!”

Wet wind began to whip their faces as she shot upwards, features demonic. Above her only a sliver of the lightening sky could be seen. Steve craned his head back, bringing up a hand to shield his eyes as he asked “How did you die?”

Bucky didn’t expect her to reply but she did: “Spite! The ducking-stool!”

“You were a witch?” Steve pressed.

“A witch?” she yelled “None such! I was betrayed! Lied to! Disowned!” 

“You were falsely accused?” 

“Never one so much!” she replied with relish.

‘Lear, Lear’ Bucky recalled with sudden clarity ‘let me not be mad’.

Steve cast a dubious look Bucky’s way: “And you’re looking for, what? Recompense?”

Elizabeth cackled wildly; the darkness pumped like a heart “What I can get. Revenge. Now-” she extended her arm, pointing imperiously at Steve “Your lover has yet to suffer this privilege. You shall die. ”

Bucky started forwards, but Steve waved him back. He obeyed, hoping that Steve actually had a plan. He did. The second Elizabeth reared back, a whip of water gathering in her hand, Steve was running, skidding under her. The whip hit the ground with a crack. Elizabeth was turning, lashing out again; Steve darted behind a mirage column, but the whip split it in half and thwacked Steve hard across the face. Undeterred, Steve stooped down and lobbed a rock at her. She flickered. Wasting no time, Bucky knelt down to do the same, shoving as many pebbles and pieces of detritus as he could into his pockets. Steve was no longer visible, but Bucky could hear him call in a pained voice “Bucky! Get to the stream! If there’s anything left in there, destroy it!”

“Anything left of what?” he yelled back.

“The ducking stool!”

Bucky rolled his eyes “You expect me to know what a ducking stool looks like? I can’t even remember what Bruce looks like half the time!”

“Wood!” Steve yelled back.

That would do. Bucky took off running, hoping he was actually heading in the direction of the stream. As he neared a side wall, Elizabeth appeared, snarling. Bucky reached into his pocket and threw a handful of projectiles. She flickered out of existence for the second he needed to leap through the space where she was and out into the open. Immediately he was hit by the rank smell of stagnant water. He grimaced, but ploughed on, clinging to the remains of the water wheel as he sank into the soft riverbed. Jeans constricting uncomfortably, he bent down and began sifting through the silt. A can, a piece of piping, some coins, a crisps packet. Nothing that seemed remotely like a ducking stool. Bucky glanced back at the mill, trying to ascertain how much time he had. Not much, if the quickening flashes of light were anything to go by. Gritting his teeth, Bucky got down on his knees, hissing as the freezing water soaked up his shirt. With effort, he dug deeper into the silt, like a child playing in the shallows at a beach. Even up to his elbows, crawling as far as he dared away from the mill, he turned up nothing. Steve yelled. Bucky half rose, turning back in the direction of the mill. His eyes fell on the wheel.  

“Wood.” he whispered.

Heaving himself out of the stream, Bucky hoped that he was right. He really didn’t want to add the wanton destruction of a historic building to his list of crimes. He sprinted along the shore, metal arm dripping steadily, and half fell on the remains of the wheel. Most of the paddles had rotted away and its rim was incomplete, but the central shaft of thick oak was remarkably intact. It was this he set upon, using his metal arm to try to lever it apart with increasing desperation as the bangs and crashes from inside the mill intensified.

“Come on.” he urged it, as the walls behind him began to rattle with the force of Elizabeth’s ire “Come on!”

It creaked, then groaned, then finally- with a report that echoed like a gunshot in the vale- split apart. All was still. Chest heaving with exertion, Bucky turned to face the mill. As he watched, the darkness evaporated like smoke and the illusion of structure melted away. In the blank grey of the early morning its scant beams and sunken walls seemed underwhelming.

“Steve?” Bucky called. 

“Here.” he replied, emerging from the ruins. He was limping slightly, and covered with dirt, but Bucky was glad to see that the night had inflicted no irreparable damage.  

“Are you okay?” he asked anyway, trying to calm the pounding of his heart. 

Steve nodded “Never been better. You?”

“I’ll live. Has the- Has she gone?” Bucky asked.

Steve shrugged, shoulders stooped “I have no idea. But I hope so.”

“Then let’s leave.” Bucky said “For real this time.”

Steve smiled, holding out his hand “Together?”

Bucky eyed him cautiously. Steve pinked “She said we were married, so I thought maybe you…?”

“I do.” Bucky replied “If you…?” 

“Yeah.”

Bucky smiled, heart doing a little flip. He reached out to take Steve’s hand, then remembered that he was covered in algae and dirt.

“I’m not exactly at my cleanest.” Steve laughed, and grabbed it anyway.

Holding hands for the first time, with the promise of more opportunities ahead of them, they began the gruelling trek back to the hotel.

Later, when he had showered and made sure that Steve was sleeping soundly, Bucky logged on to the hotel’s wifi and typed Elizabeth’s name into the search engine. The screen turned completely and utterly blank. He gulped. 


End file.
